Page 29

29

Ben Stirling

It’s late and Luca’s in bed. I’m upstairs in the room I’ve been calling The Room of Doom. It’s where I’ve been putting things I can’t find a proper place for. The train set Luca never plays with is in here. So are many of the framed hockey jerseys and art I haven’t put up yet.

The Room of Doom looks onto the street.

It’s dark in here, and I haven’t turned on the light. I’m standing at the window, watching. Looking out. I’ve been here since Luca went down, and so far, there’s been no sighting of Jeremiah heading out on his date.

The night air is a little too close. I feel off. A little too hot and too big for the room I’m in. My mind is racing, spinning in small circles, and ending up back where I started.

I’ve thought about lots of things since I saw the sex toy in Jeremiah’s bathroom the other day. I have. I’ve been present and attentive when I’ve been with Luca, and I was perfectly polite and coherent when the curtain lady came over this afternoon. I even had her measure the rest of the house while she was here, and that’s some good, clear thinking right there. It’s taken me weeks to get off my ass and make the appointment, so I figured I may as well get the whole place done at once rather than risk waiting for the next time I take it upon myself to become proactive about homemaking.

I’ve called a pool and yard service since I spotted the toy, and I got a really good workout in yesterday. I got a less-than-good one today, but still. My point is, I’ve thought about other things. Lots of them.

It’s just that I’ve thought about the toy quite a lot too.

It’s been hard not to. Maybe it’s problematic of me, but in the back of my mind, I guess I wondered if Jeremiah was the kind of guy who liked giving it or taking it. Or both.

I’m not proud of myself. I know it’s none of my business. He’s my friend. It makes no difference to me what he likes in bed.

It’s just that now I know for sure he likes taking it. Or giving it and taking it. Either way, I know he likes taking it because he wouldn’t own that particular toy if he didn’t. There’d definitely be no reason to have it in his shower if he didn’t use it.

It’s purple, the toy. Not lavender or mauve. Strong, vibrant purple. Like stained glass in a chapel window.

It looked sturdy. You know, like it was securely fixed to the wall. Like the mechanism that held it there was robust.

The thing I keep coming back to is the height it was mounted at—just below waist height. Jeremiah’s waist height, not mine, and I feel some kind of way about the fact that I know it was there, at that height, on purpose. It’s the right height. The right height for him. That’s where he needs it to be when he uses it. When he plays with it.

I have no idea why I’m fixated on that idea, but I am.

I wonder if there’s a specific tile he uses to mark the height or if he just knows where to put it. Maybe he has to move it around to find the right spot each time.

Or maybe he has to go up onto his toes when he works it in.

There’s a disturbance down below on the street. A movement. A jerky shadow trickling from Jeremiah’s side of the house. I press the side of my face against the window and crane my neck. My body temperature rises despite how cool the pane of glass is against my cheek.

The sinews in my neck stiffen and don’t release.

I let out the breath I’m holding.

It’s a false alarm.

It’s not Jeremiah. It’s a woman walking her dog. A fluffy Pomeranian that seems pleased to be out at this time of night.

When they disappear from view, the street falls quiet again. There’s no movement except for a streetlight that flickers and hums now and again.

I take a while to relax despite the fact that I’m almost positive Jeremiah hasn’t left home yet. I’ve been posted here since eight p.m. sharp, and I haven’t seen him. He probably canceled the date, or maybe his date canceled on him. No. They would have swapped photos when they chatted last night. There’s no way his date canceled on him.

Jeremiah must have changed his mind.

He’s probably home, getting ready for yoga.

There’s no way I missed him. I’ve barely blinked since I’ve been here, and no one arranges to meet for a hookup drink earlier than eight o’clock. Hookups happen late at night.

They do.

Don’t they?

My chest tightens and my heart punches at my ribs in annoyance. It’s a blunt, indignant rage. An old, base anger I recognize. I know it. I’ve felt it before. I’ve felt it around women I wanted badly in the past. I felt it in spades when men so much as looked at Liz the wrong way.

Hell, I’ve felt it when guys on the bench picked up my stick and moved it without asking me to move it myself.

I’m not proud of it. Not even remotely. I know it’s not big or evolved of me, but I know this feeling, and I know what it means.

Don’t touch what’s mine.

It’s a lot to unpack, and I’ll definitely need to spend some time working through it at some point because what the fuck, but not right now. Right now, I’m high-stepping over train sets and picking my way through boxes and canvases as I beat a hurried path to my room.

There.

See?

Everything’s fine. Jeremiah is home. He’s not out. He’s in his bedroom, picking up shoes off the floor and tossing them into his closet without looking back to see where they land. He’s changed out of the clothes he was wearing earlier. He’s in sleep pants and a white tank now. The tank is a little loose on him. The fabric looks soft and thin, well-worn.

I was right. He’s not going out. He’s getting ready for a night in.

Unless the plan has changed and he’s decided to host.

Shit, maybe he’s having this guy over, and that’s why he’s straightening his house up.

Is he crazy? Is he seriously inviting a complete stranger into his home? He doesn’t know this guy from Adam. He said so himself. He said he met him on an app last night. He called him a random. Surely he’s not planning on letting him into his house and just hoping for the best? That’s dangerous.

You know what, I’m just going to ask him. I’m not going to drive myself crazy with questions and theories. I’m too old for that shit.

No date, huh?

His phone buzzes on the side table in his living room. It must because he walks over and picks it up. Blue ticks appear next to my message, and three dots pop up as he types.

I make a conscious effort not to hold my phone too tight as I stare down at my screen.

Yeah, I canceled.

How did you know?

Fuuuuuck!

What the hell is wrong with me? What was I thinking messaging him about this, and why the fuck did I not think he’d ask how I knew he wasn’t out?

More to the point, how the hell do I explain any of this?

Just a wild guess.

Shit.

No, I can’t do that.

I can’t lie to him. He doesn’t lie to me. He tells me the truth even when it leaves him so pink and uncomfortable I can literally feel the heat waves bouncing off him.

I can see you.

I can see into your house. Thought you knew from the other night when you came up to my room, but I guess maybe you were too out of it to remember.

I’ve been meaning to tell you.

I keep forgetting to mention it.

Sorry. I haven’t been creeping on you or anything.

Is that the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth?

I sincerely don’t think so, but I also don’t think I have it in me to correct myself.

I should’ve gone to bed early tonight. Spying on Jeremiah was a bad idea. It’s one thing to watch him from my bedroom window. That can’t always be helped because I have a thousand yards of fabric to draw, and I actively can’t help seeing what he’s up to while I do it, but I think watching from the front of the house, in the dark, puts it in another category altogether. And not a good one.

I shouldn’t have let myself do this.

I have a crick in my neck now, which I richly deserve, and on top of that, there’s a tight knot forming near the base of my skull. I’ve probably brought on another headache, and I can tell it’s going to be a bad one. It’s going to be as bad, if not worse, than the last one I had.

I wonder if he’d be prepared to give me another massage if it gets really bad?

I think he might. He didn’t seem to mind last time despite everything that happened afterward.

Various emotions bubble up when I think about it. I push them down as hard as I can. When that doesn’t work, I try to call up the toy because even though thinking about that is a mindfuck, it’s a lot easier to deal with than thinking about how good he felt in my arms.

Kidding. I know you can see my house.

I wasn’t THAT out of it.

And don’t worry, I know you aren’t a creep.

Hmm, the jury’s out on that one.

To distract him—and myself—from further creep allegations and having to delve too deeply into why I’m behaving like this, I opt to keep the conversation going.

You WERE super out of it the other night.

You were singing at one point.

It’s true. He was. Even though they weren’t playing, he sang the Vipers’ goal song every time either team came close to scoring in the third period. He was supposed to change the lyrics of “It’s Raining Men” to “It’s Raining Goals,” but he didn’t.

My memory of it is patchy, and it didn’t come back to me until a few days later, but he definitely was singing that night, and with a lot of gusto. He even made up a little dance to go with the song. It was kind of the best because he was hammered and looked sleepy and sweet, and he did this little shoulder thing when he got to the chorus. It was cute.

What? I can say cute if I want.

Across the thick black expanse of the vegetation that separates his house from mine, I see Jeremiah look down and smile as he types. It’s the kind of smile that makes his shoulders hunch and the light bounce off his cheeks. The lights are blue tonight. A soft, cool shade that highlights the shadows around his eyes and mouth and makes him look soft and cool too.

Me? Singing? Neverrr.

You totally did.

Pics, or it didn’t happen.

Come over on Friday for a rematch, and I’ll get pics.

Luca, Cam, and Rory are all going to Liz’s mom's and dad’s place this weekend for a two-night sleepover that’s been heralded as the “most fun sleepover of all time,” so I’ll be home alone.

I love spending time with Luca, I do, but it’s good to have a guys’ night with an adult from time to time. It’ll be nice to have Jeremiah over. I had a great time with him the other night. It’ll be fun. It’s what friends do. Hang out, chill, watch TV, and throw a few drinks back.

It’s not like I’m asking him out.

Across the way, Jeremiah looks up, eyes tracking from window to window until they arrive where I’m standing.

I’ll bring wine.

I’ll hide the tequila.

He responds to my message with a laughing emoji.

I feel a ridiculous, out-of-proportion level of pride for making him smile.

So, what happened to your date?

Relax. Friends do that too. They ask each other about their lives and relationships. It happens every day.

Jeremiah leans against the opening of the sliding glass door near his pottery wheel, looking down as he types. A gentle breeze picks up a curled lock of hair and disturbs it. It floats for a moment and then falls onto his forehead, gradually settling back to its usual position.

I wasn’t feeling it.

Okay, okay. I admit, friends don’t typically feel such a rush of relief hearing about a canceled date that their shoulders drop by two or three inches and their chest caves, but whatever. I care about Jeremiah. I don’t want him going out with a perfect stranger and getting into God knows what kind of trouble. It would be completely different if I knew for a fact that the guy he was planning to meet up with was a nice, decent man who wasn’t too young for him, who deserved him, and who didn’t pose any danger to him.

How come?

He scrunches his face and shakes his head almost imperceptibly. The way he does it makes me think he’s shaking his head at himself, not at me.

I dunno.

Guess I was more in the mood to get into bed with a book than with a random.

Must be some book to win out against getting railed.

I stare blankly at the message I just sent.

Jesus. What is happening to me?

I’m standing at my window watching my neighbor text me with a level of interest that’s hard to explain. I’m excessively relieved he’s home and not on a date, and for some inexplicable reason, I keep steering our conversations to sex today.

Not only that, my dick is hard.

Rock hard.

Maybe I’m the one who needs to get laid. Maybe it’s been too long, and it’s finally gotten to me.

Yeah, that could be it.

It has been a while. Almost a year and a half, and even for someone who’s grieving, that’s a significant period of time. I used to have a raging libido. Maybe it’s coming back. Maybe that’s what’s happening. I have needs, and my body is starting to remember what they are. Jerking off is all well and good, but sometimes you need contact with another human being. Sometimes, you need connection and touch more than you need to get off.

Maybe that’s where I am.

Across the blackness of the shadowy garden separating us, Jeremiah takes a sharp breath and shakes his head at himself again. He fights a smile as he types.

Something like that.

He watches my window after he hits send. His face is turned up, gaze intense and unblinking. My lights are out and my sheer curtains are drawn. I’m completely hidden from view. I know he can’t see me.

There’s no way he can see me.

It feels like he can though. It feels like it does when he’s with me. When he looks at me and slices through the bullshit, and sees who I am.

It’s like that for me. Maybe it’s like that for him, too, because he looks up at me for the longest time, for so long, I stop feeling like I’m here in the present and start feeling like I’m somewhere else altogether. Like I’m someone else altogether.

Eventually, his head dips and he raises one hand. His movement is hesitant. A little reticent. Unsure and abashed. His fingers splay out, hand opening, palm showing.

Then he waves.

Being the utter dumbass I am, I raise my own hand and wave back despite knowing damn well he can’t see me.

He drops his hand quickly, swiping the back lightly across his forehead, worrying his bottom lip with his pointer and thumb before pressing it into his mouth and gnawing at it. An incisor glints as he releases it.

His lips are parted and pink.

Soft pink.

Pale pink.

The bottom one is wet, glittering where the moonlight hits it. It’s plump and lush, so full that there’s a slight dip in the middle. A dent. A little crease carved into his flesh by the sound of his laughter.

It takes me several seconds to register what I’m looking at. Where else I’ve seen that mouth, those lips. When I do, I step back as hard and fast as I would have if I’d been pushed.